


The Anchor and the Catalyst

by NHMoonshadow



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Soul Bonding, Desmond Miles Lives, Fix It Fic, Kinda?, M/M, More tags to be added, Slow Burn, Time Travel, William Miles' A+ Parenting, protective Altaïr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26710006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NHMoonshadow/pseuds/NHMoonshadow
Summary: When Altair had sat down, alone in the silent and empty depths of his library, he knew that his time had come at long last. His body felt heavy, and he was so very tired. As his eyes drifted shut, he let out his final breath and greeted the oncoming dark as one would an old friend.Which made it even more jarring when his eyes snapped open to see a dim predawn sky.
Relationships: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Desmond Miles, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe, Past Altair/Maria - Relationship
Comments: 121
Kudos: 697





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by My Demons by Starset, and Undone by FFH. From those two songs, this fic was born!

**Prologue**

_Soon I shall pass from this world. It is my time. All the hours of the day are now colored by the thoughts and fears borne of this realization. I know that the elements of my body will return to the Earth. But what of my consciousness? My identity? That is to say – what of ME? I suspect it will end. That there is no next world. Nor a return to this one. It will simply be done. Forever._

_Our lives are so brief and unimportant. The cosmos cares nothing for us. For what we've done; Had we wrought evil instead of good. Had I chosen to abuse the Apple instead of seal it away. None of it would have mattered. There is no counting. No reckoning. No final judgement. There is simply silence. And darkness. Utter and absolute... And so I have begun to wonder – might there not be a way to stop – or at least delay – death's embrace?_

_Surely the ones who came before were not so frail and feeble as we. But I have sworn to be done with the artifact. To not gaze into its core. Still: faced as I am with the prospect of my end, what harm is there in one last look…_

_-_ **Altair’s Codex, Page 30**

  
  


When Altair had sat down, alone in the silent and empty depths of his library, he knew that his time had come at long last. His body felt heavy and he was so very tired. As his eyes drifted shut, he let out his final breath and greeted the oncoming dark as one would an old friend.

Which made it even more jarring when his eyes snapped open to see a dim predawn sky. 

He gasped, chest heaving. The air was so sharp and bitterly cold it was like taking a knife to his lungs. He coughed and rolled over, his breath escaping in great plumes of fog.

As he made to push himself up, the sight of his own limbs made him pause. He settled his weight on his knees, and couldn’t help but stare at his hands even as he tested their strength and movement. His thin skin and brittle, aching joints were gone. His palms were calloused and his grip strong in a way they hadn’t been in many years. 

With confusion clawing at him, Altair stood, quickly taking stock of himself as well as his surroundings. 

The rest of him was more of the same, hale and hearty in a way he hadn’t been since he was a much younger man. His limbs were all coiled strength and speed, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. There was a low thrum of energy vibrating just below his skin that told him he could run and climb and not tire. His robes were familiar, but they were not what he had been wearing last. Instead of the darker robes marking him as the Mentor, they were the stark white of a master assassin. He was armed, which was reassuring, but a hidden blade and half a dozen throwing knives were not nearly enough when confronted with unknown territory.

And he was in unknown territory. The sun had not yet risen, but at a glance he could say with certainty that he did not know these lands. 

There were rolling hills of open grassland spreading for leagues around him, the vegetation brown and dead. A thin layer of snow dusted everything, adding to the barren atmosphere. To one side, the open space eventually gave way to a forest, the rolling hills slowly transitioning to harsher peaks, and to the other the grassland continues on, eventually flattening out to disappear into the horizon.

But there, in the distance, was a small settlement nestled between two low hills. Nearly a dozen structures were all clustered together, dark blocks standing out in stark contrast to the snow. Only one building showed signs of its residents being awake, the yellow glow of lantern light illuminating a handful of windows. 

That was promising, at least. If nothing else, perhaps he could learn where he was. 

And so, he began to walk. 

With every step that brought him closer to his destination, the more he became aware of the sheer _wrongness_ of the world around him. He was keenly feeling the cold and the firm ground beneath his feet, but he left no footprints in his wake. 

There were strange wheeled machines of all sizes and shapes that rested around the settlement. They vaguely resembled something that the Apple would show him, but many were worn, and several bore extensive patches of rust. Nothing created by the hands of Those Who Came Before eroded or tarnished with age. 

Whatever the machines were, they had been created by the hands of men. 

As he drew closer to the single illuminated building, even the lights were wrong, far too strong and steady to be caused by lamps or torches. But soon voices carried on the wind. It was excited chatter mostly, nothing decipherable, and, briefly, the faint screaming of an infant.

Not knowing how these people would take a stranger knocking at their door, Altair decided to perform some reconnaissance before choosing a course of action.

He could almost hear Malik in the back of his mind, laughing at him that old age had finally driven some sense of caution into him.

Well, not so old at the moment, but Altair still didn’t know what to make of that.

Using what little cover that was available, he slunk around the perimeter. He hadn’t quite reached the inhabited building when a strange roar echoed from afar.

Ducking behind one of the smaller wheeled contraptions, Altair peered around the machine to identify the source of the noise and saw-

He had no clue what he was looking at.

It was a light, with some sort of dark form behind the glare. The thing illuminated the ground before it as it crested over the distant hills, still roaring like a demon and covering ground far faster than any horse. 

Whatever it was, it was headed right for the settlement. 

Altair could still hear the voices behind him, light and jovial, though he still could not make out the words. He was torn with indecision. Did they not know what was coming towards them? Did they not hear it? How could they _not_?

Still it came, louder and louder as it drew near, and still the occupants showed no sign of noticing.

In the end, it was the cry of an infant that spurred him into motion.

Quick as a fox, Altair scaled the machine he had hid behind, and from there leapt onto the closest rooftop. It was an effortless jump, and he used his momentum to gain enough speed to carry him to the next building. The next jump was harder, but his body remembered how to adjust, to compensate, muscle memory still in effect even though it had been years since he had last attempted such feats. 

He ran, keeping careful watch on the screaming monster, and drew one of his throwing knives as soon as it came within his range. The blade landed with precision, but it kept coming, completely unhindered.

He cursed silently, eyes tracking his target even as he planned his next move. Putting on a final burst of speed, Altair charged to the end of the building and _leapt._ At the apex of his jump he flicked his wrist, triggering the mechanism on his hidden blade. 

Even if he did not kill the thing, at the very least he could try to cripple it.

He did not expect to pass through it like a hand through mist.

Startled, he attempted to tuck into a roll at the last second. He completely botched his landing, hitting the ground hard and ending up in an ungraceful heap with the wind knocked out of him. Pushing through the shock, he hurried to his feet, grateful he seemed to be relatively unharmed. 

‘He had seen men break limbs with far better landings.

Not giving himself time to think, he bolted to give chase. He slipped another knife into his dominant hand as he rounded the corner, only to skid to a stop, blade still clasped between two fingers.

His target had stopped just outside the inhabited building, and a shaft of light from a nearby window gave Altair his first true view of it. The monster . . . actually wasn’t a monster at all, but some sort of miniature version of one of the wheeled machines. One wheel in front, two in the back, and a large light mounted to its nose.

Most startling of all, was that the machine had a _rider_. The figure mounted astride the thing twisted something, silencing the noise and snuffing out that blinding light. In one fluid movement, they dismounted and pulled off the thick material covering their head. The face underneath revealed a man less than half Darim’s age, give or take a few years. 

Someone opened the door to the building, spilling even more light on the scene. Another man poked his torso out, a hand gripping the doorframe. The voice that followed was practically laughing as he shouted something to the rider, which in turn prompted a biting reply. 

Altair understood nothing of the exchange. 

The rider stomped up the steps and none too gently pushed the other man out of his way to get inside. The door swung shut firmly behind them. 

Altair stood there, still panting from his exertion, and tried to find sense in all this madness. 

There was no way the man in the doorway hadn't seen him. He had been in direct line of sight and the stark contrast of his red sash against white robes should have drawn the eye, and yet neither man paid notice. 

As if they could not see him. 

In a daze, Altair returned the knife in his hand to its sheath. His feet brought him to the three-wheeled machine and there he found his first throwing knife imbedded neatly in the half globe of glass that had apparently been the source of that bright light. When he retrieved it, the surface that remained was smooth and unblemished as if it had never been pierced to begin with. Altair touched his fingers to it, a bit in awe.

At some point during his investigation of the rideable machine, it had begun to snow, the sky adding a fresh layer to the powder already on the ground. It took a moment to realize that none of the snow was touching him. 

Rather, it was, he could feel each flake land where it touched bare skin, but instead of coming to rest they would float through him to settle elsewhere. 

“I’m dead,” he murmured. 

He knew this, at least, on an intellectual level he did, but it was as if he needed further proof to properly acknowledge it. 

But if he was dead . . . was this some sort of afterlife? He had heard many theories about life after death, from all walks of life and many different religions, but this matched none of them.

Voices from inside caught his attention once again, piquing his curiosity. 

He followed the footsteps of the rider up the steps and to the door. Out of habit, he tried the handle. The metal was cool and rigid beneath his palm, but it didn’t so much as rattle. Odd. Testing, he pushed firmly against the door, but again, nothing. The wood did not creak or groan in response to the pressure. He could touch and feel, but he might as well not be there for all he could affect it. 

He pushed once more for good measure, only to stumble forward as the door swung open. There was one disorienting moment when the figure who opened the door walked _through him_ , followed quickly by two others. The last one through grabbed the door to close it behind them, leaving Altair inside the building as the door passed through him as well. 

“This place is beyond strange,” he commented, patting himself down as is to assure himself of his own solidity. Which, at the moment, seemed relative to the situation. 

He found himself in some sort of entry hall, warmly lit with lights along the ceiling and pale, cream-colored walls. It led him to an open sitting area with a large cushioned piece of furniture and a low table spread before it. A man and a woman sat side by side, talking in low tones while the woman fiddled with something, tools in hand. The man watched attentively as she pointed at something, then grabbed a small tool off of the table to hand it to her. Their clothing was just as odd as the rest of this place. The material was more vibrantly pigmented than he was used to seeing, but rather simple in design. The woman had the same leggings as the man, the material thick and heavy, and both the same shade of faded blue.

Now more confident in his invisibility to these people, Altair came closer to examine the clutter strewn across the table. 

They were making repairs to a hidden blade. 

The triggering mechanism was far more sophisticated than he was used to, the gauntlet more utilitarian, but there was no denying what it was, even in it’s dismantled state.

Wherever Altair had come to be, he was still surrounded by members of the Brotherhood.

For the first time, Altair entertained the thought that maybe it wasn't a matter of where he was, but _when_. 

Somewhere deeper in the building came the muffled thump of a door opening and then gently closing. Moments later, the rider from before came into the room, carefully holding a bundle of cloth to his chest, teeth bared in a broad smile. 

The woman sat her tools down, wiped her hands on a rag and stood, asking something and gesturing to the bundle with one hand. The man nodded and carefully transferred his burden into her arms. 

With the change of angles Altair was able to see the newborn wrapped snugly within the folds of the fabric, their bright pink face marking them as mere hours old. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was the same child that he heard crying earlier.

What Altair did not know was how this child would eventually come to be the center of his universe. How this child would at once be his focal point and his call to action.

For this was the first time Altair ever laid eyes on Desmond Miles. 

  
  


Altair was nothing if not a scholar, especially in the later years of his life.

Now, in this strange half-existence he had found himself in, he had become a student once more. And there was so very much to learn. 

The first thing that he learned was his own limitations. He experimented until he found the rules of his odd state of being, and some of those rules were bizarre contradictions that took some getting used to. 

He existed in this world but was not truly one with it. He felt cold and heat, but other than being aware of the temperature extremes, they did not phase him beyond basic physical reactions. His breath would fog in the cold, and he would sweat in the heat, but he wouldn't leave footprints, even in thick snow or soft mud. 

He could touch and feel texture but he couldn't truly interact with objects or people. If he stepped out onto something that couldn't naturally support his weight he would simply fall through it once he hit its breaking point. If he tried to move or grab something it would be as fruitless as moving a mountain, but if he happened to be in the path of something already in motion it would simply pass through him. 

With practice and concentration, eventually Altair could leap onto the machines that these assassins used as transportation without falling straight through while they were in motion.

From that discovery, he soon learned the trick of passing through walls and doors. This was far more difficult, and doing it many times in one day left him feeling drained. However, for all he pushed and exerted himself, he could feel tired, but he could never quite achieve total exhaustion. He didn't _need_ to sleep but was certainly more alert and energized after he did. 

While he was figuring out his new rules, he was also learning about this branch of the Brotherhood and their ways. Without understanding the language, there was only so much he could piece together, but some things were clear enough without translation.

The place he had found himself was an isolated community of more than two dozen individuals, including children. Assassins, all of them, or at least receiving training as such. There were sparring sessions and weapons practice, and once Altair was certain he witnessed one of the older children receiving a lesson in tracking. 

The rider he had seen that first morning seemed to be in charge, clearly directing the others more often than not. However, for all his clear leadership, Altair suspected he was not the true mentor of the Brotherhood. This was a small branch of a larger whole. 

Many of the techniques and weapons were ones he had never seen before. Some of the hand to hand was particularly impressive, and he found himself mimicking the lessons, trying to learn by observation. 

The adults seemed to rotate between local duties and leaving for longer periods. Sometimes it was simply a short excursion for supplies (though they seemed rather resourceful with what they had on hand) and longer trips that were clearly assigned missions. He accompanied a few parties out to see more of this strange new world and was stunned at the wealth of technology. There were devices that let you speak instantly across great distances and great winged machines that gave men the ability to fly.

His first excursion into the nearest city had been nearly overwhelming. 

But after nearly a dozen trips he decided on no more, at least for now. Every time he was away something tugged at the back of his mind, an uneasiness that slowly grew and festered until he returned to the settlement. Once there, it bled away and dissipated like it never was. The first time it happened he convinced himself it was just nerves at braving the unknown, but by the fourth he knew better but couldn't pinpoint the cause. 

On his very last excursion he had been shadowing an assassin on a solo reconnaissance mission half a world away when he was yanked unceremoniously back to the settlement. He had been running to keep pace, but between one step and the next he had changed locations completely. It wasn't even the same time of day from one location to the next, which made the transition especially jarring. 

The only thing that had been different since he had left was that the youngest member of the community had fallen seriously ill. 

Back home, sickness in children had been a terrifying thing. Their bodies were not always up to the fight, and it wasn't unusual for them to fall under the strain. When Sef and Darim were very young, a sickness had swept through Acre and Masyaf. Darim had fallen ill, and Sef had been so upset when he and Maria had kept him from his younger brother in an effort to keep him healthy. They had been one of the lucky ones. Darim had recovered quickly, but it could have gone the other way so very easily. 

That memory alone had kept Altair by the child’s bedside. Hood pushed back and gloves off, he had settled down beside the boy, legs stretched out and back against the wall. There he remained even when the boy’s parents disappeared down the hall to scream at each other behind closed doors. He didn't move until the fever broke and his parents stopped taking their frustrations out on each other. 

It was during his vigil that he learned that the child's name was Desmond. 

  
  


After that first year, Altair made learning the language his top priority. Despite his many travels throughout his life, picking up new languages had never come easily to him, even with the aid of a good translator.

Maria would always poke fun at his terrible pronunciation, and sometimes he would do it deliberately just to hear her laugh. But both her and Darim had a gift with languages and were very patient teachers.

There was no one here to tease him about his mistakes or coach him in proper sentence structure. There was no one to point out or demonstrate the subtle differences between similar words. Though he was constantly surrounded by conversations, he could never contribute to them. 

But still he listened, and he practiced, and by the time Desmond was old enough to learn his letters, Altair felt he had a steady grasp of the language. So when Desmond’s schooling truly began they learned how to read together. 

  
  


The Spring sun was warm on Altair’s face as he leaned against the fence post at his back, his arms crossed over his chest. The heat was mild and pleasant. The breeze blowing down from the mountains was cool and rustled the leaves of the ancient oak tree towering over him. His hood was pushed back to properly enjoy it. 

Then again, he left his hood down most days recently. It wasn't like remaining anonymous was difficult in his state of being, so he saw little point in leaving it up besides pure habit.

This was a frequent spot that he visited, primarily because this was Desmond's favorite spot to run off to when he slipped away from the adults or whichever teenager was given the unlucky task of minding him.

At five years of age, Desmond was an adventurous child who had made a game out of giving fully trained assassins the slip. He was rather good at it too. It frustrated his mother to no end, but his father usually dismissed her concerns, claiming it good practice all around, for their son as well as their men. 

Watching the child outsmart the other inhabitants of the Farm had become Altair’s favorite pastime.

Currently, Desmond was slowly climbing into the higher canopy of the old oak, absolutely set on the mission he had assigned himself. The boy had found a fledgling hiding in the grass at the base of the tree. Once he realized it was unharmed, Desmond had decided to return it to it’s nest. 

When presented with the problem of needing both hands to climb, Desmond had removed his shirt and had crafted a makeshift bag out of it. After he had carefully placed the fledgling inside, he gripped the top of the bag between his teeth and promptly began to climb. 

Ever the sentinel, Altair smiled when Desmond finally reached his goal. Thin legs wrapped tightly around his perch to keep himself steady as the boy gently deposited the scared fledgling back into its nest. 

“There you go,” Desmond was telling it cheerfully as he pulled his shirt back over his head. “Now, no more falling until you can really fly, okay? There's coyotes out here!”

Altair pushed away from his post as Desmond began his descent. It was past lunchtime and it was very likely that he would retreat back to the main house now. He had escaped his mother early that morning and someone would come looking if he did not show up soon. 

The sharp crack and yelp from above made the bottom of Altair’s stomach drop. 

A branch had snapped beneath Desmond's weight. The boy had managed to grab hold of another branch, but it was clear that his grip was barely holding on. 

“Help! Somebody!” Desmond cried, trying desperately to get better purchase. The ground was at least fifteen feet below him. “ _Please!_ ”

His hold slipped. 

“Desmond!”

Forgetting himself, Altair rushed forward to catch him. 

However, Desmond did not fall through his arms. 

Or rather, he _did_ , but when Desmond hit the ground with a sickening _crunch_ he did not feel the nauseating pain that came along with it. 

Because it was no longer Desmond in control of his body. 

Altair, with his insane pain threshold built over his lifelong career as an assassin, simply grit his teeth and breathed deep until he could get to his feet. When he looked down at his- at _Desmond’s_ \- arms to assess the damage, he could see both palms were horribly splintered and he could feel several large scrapes. But what his eyes were fixed to was the extra bend in his left forearm and the sheer _wrongness_ of it.

Panic and hysteria that was not his own welled up at the sight, but thankfully there was no pain echoed back at him. 

Altair couldn’t contain the sheer relief he felt when he realized that Desmond was still here with him. For one wild moment he had feared that he had somehow taken possession of the boy’s body and had cursed him to experience the half-life he had been living and he would never know for certain. 

Whatever caused this strange dual-occupancy, at the moment Altair was grateful for it. At least this way he could actually help. 

He tried to reach out in an attempt to soothe some of Desmond's panic, deliberately looking away from the broken arm so he no longer had the visual. 

_It’s okay_ , he tried to say. _It’s okay. I am with you._

The panic eased, but did not disappear. Altair would take it as a victory all the same. 

They were near the outskirts of the Farm, just past the run down wooden fence that had once acted as a boundary marker before the Assassins had claimed the land beyond it. The main hub of the Farm was nearly two miles away.

The walk back took nearly an hour.

When he did arrive, he bypassed the main house completely to bang on the door of the medical building. When it swung open the man beyond took one look at him before ushering him inside, yelling for someone to fetch Sue or William, and then demanding to know what happened.

Altair had sat there silently for the whole thing, only offering nods or shrugs when the adults asked questions. He didn’t trust himself to sound like Desmond, so he didn’t even bother to try. 

It was obvious that the adults found his calmness unnerving, especially when it was revealed how bad the break truly was. Shock, they murmured between themselves, not expecting to be overheard. 

It wasn't until later that night, when Desmond’s arm was properly set and wrapped in a thick plaster cast, that Altair made an effort to return control to the boy. It took a while and the parting drained him like nothing before or since. That night Altair sat beside Desmond and slept like he hadn't since he was actually alive.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but by the next morning it was like it never happened. Nothing had changed. All of Altair’s old rules still applied, and he was just as invisible as he ever was. He was reduced to a mere spectre once more.

Altair was never able to recreate the experience, just as he never figured out how he had accomplished it in the first place.

Desmond was his usual bright self in the wake of the whole ordeal, poking and prodding at the cast even after repeatedly being scolded to stop. He seemed more fascinated about it than anything, and annoyed that he wouldn’t be climbing for a while.

But when asked how he made it back by himself he insisted it wasn’t him.

“You mean you don’t remember.”

“I _do_ remember. But mom, it wasn’t me!”

“Really. Who was it then?”

“He never said.”

  
  


As well as he ran this isolated cell of Assassins, there was many things Altair disagreed with when it came to William Miles. Most notably, the way he handled his son. 

From what Altair had observed over the years, parents were mostly in control of their children's education and early stages of training. When they were older, they were put under William’s supervision and their training intensified. They were only sent to him when their parents deemed them ready.

William’s own son was never given that grace period.

Desmond’s training was started earlier than most, and Altair bore witness to it all in silent fury. 

William was a strict instructor under normal circumstances, but with Desmond he was beyond demanding. Because Desmond was his son, he always expected more than what the boy could actually give. It was always _more_ , and _faster_ , and _I expect better._ Praise and encouragement not stemming from the ever-present threat of consequences was nonexistent. 

What was worse was that nothing was truly explained to the children at the Farm. Oh, they were taught the Creed, to a point, but they were never given a solid understanding of what it was they were training for. At least, William never made it clear to them. The Templars were nothing more than a vague entity to them, never labeled, never explained or given form. 

There was no choice but to train, to listen, to _obey_. But never question.

It was too like the Templars of his time, and brought to mind Al Mualim.

It made Altair’s skin crawl.

Desmond pushed himself beyond his limits again and again to please his father. But still, William always demanded _more_.

Eventually, there came a point where Desmond's nature came into conflict with what William was trying to shape him into. Kind, gentle Desmond, who showed all the physical promise of a great Assassin, but who showed none of the willingness to do harm to others. 

If he had been able to, Altair would have explained that sometimes such things were necessary, especially when one was defending those who could not help themselves. He would have explained that he could keep his kindness, and that he could use it to make himself stronger under the right circumstances. That he could temper it and use it to protect his loved ones. That there were other roles he could have if he could never bring himself to kill. Medics were always invaluable, as were informants.

Becoming an Assassin was always supposed to be a choice.

But that’s not how it was on the Farm. Everyone here was an Assassin. Those who weren't were expected to become one in due time. No one here was given a choice in the matter.

And no one was given less of a choice than Desmond Miles.

The whole thing broke Altair’s heart.

Then came the day that the true Mentor of the Brotherhood was killed. Due to his limitations, Altair didn’t know much beyond the fact that it was some sort of Templar spy who murdered him. Someone masquerading as an Assassin managed to infiltrate and get too close.

When the news came, word spread among the adults that William Miles took up the mantel. 

Desmond worked around the added pressure as best he could. His offense was half hearted at best, but he excelled in defense and evasive tactics. His theory seemed to be that if he was never cornered he would never be forced to go in for the kill. 

It was a valiant effort, Altair would give him that, and for a while it worked well enough. 

By the time Desmond was thirteen he was fast, and far more agile than most of his sparring partners. When endurance was an issue, Desmond would goad his opponent, needling them until he found what got them to react. Once he had that, he would trick them into over exerting themselves in the effort of landing a hit. While he would avoid doing physical damage, when he found their weakness in this manner he never hesitated to exploit it. 

It soon became an automatic thing for him, and Desmond soon wore this new persona like armor, hiding behind sarcasm and pointed barbs. He gained the reputation of caring about no one but himself, and no one besides Altair saw how much that bothered him. 

Eventually, there was no one who could see through the lie that Desmond surrounded himself with. 

No one but Altair. 

  
  


Desmond was sixteen when his father finally pushed him too far.

Altair was perched on the cab of a truck, idly flipping one of his knives and half wishing he could stick one in William and have the man actually feel it. 

The fact that this man held his old title sat bitter and heavy on his heart, and he might have let a blade fly on more than one occasion. Sometimes he would wait a few days before retrieving it, content to watch the man go about his day completely unaware of the knife sticking out of him. Malik and Maria would have called him childish and petty in turn, but he could not bring himself to care. He had few amusements as it was. 

But today, he was anything but amused.

William was sparring with Desmond on a nearby patch of dirt. Although calling this a spar was far too generous. Each of them had a hunting knife in hand, circling each other until William would grow impatient and rush in to attack. 

Usually with trainees William would adjust himself to the individual to best address their deficiencies. He did this even with Desmond, although he was always far harsher with him than any of the others. He was a tough instructor but there was always a lesson there.

But not today. 

Today, William was barely holding back. He drove his attacks hard and fast, and Altair had no idea what he was trying to accomplish here. 

Desmond dodged and parried without his usual running commentary. There was only one person Desmond didn’t antagonize during sparring sessions, and that was his father. Not only because William was more dangerous when he was angry, but because the boy still sought the man’s approval. 

Not that the lack of provocation was helping him any. William was already mad, and it was clear that Desmond knew it as well but didn't understand why. 

A downward strike and a block, and the two were locked in close. William hooked Desmond's heel with his own, sending the boy back-first into the dirt. 

“How did you not see that coming? Get up!”

“What is _with_ you today?” Desmond groaned, but got to his feet all the same. He reversed the grip on his knife and brought it up into a guard, and waited for his father to re-engage.

William did not disappoint. 

And the process repeated all over again, only this time William pushed so hard that Desmond was actively giving ground to avoid strikes that were becoming more and more vicious.

“Stop defending and _attack_!”

Desmond stumbled, just a bit, but even at his distance, Altair could see the hole in his guard. Clearly, William saw it too.

Then he went too far.

Desmond looked up just as the blade came down, drawing a line of red through his lips and part way down his chin. Time stood still as the boy froze, eyes wide in shock and disbelief.

All William did was shake his head in disgust and wipe his blade clean before sheathing it. “If you don’t start taking this seriously you’re going to get yourself killed.”

The man turned his back on Desmond and walked away.

No longer able to contain his rage, Altair finally let his blade fly and watched it bury itself in the man’s back, all the while cursing him for a fool.

For it was then, with Desmond’s blood dripping onto the dusty earth, that Altair knew that William Miles had lost his son. 

  
  


Altair knew what was coming. 

Desmond had already made the decision, but it crystallized when it was clear that he had no allies here. 

That included his own mother. 

Sue had sat by her son while he was being stitched up after that mockery of a spar, and the only thing she really had to say was “Why don’t you just listen to your father?”

Altair was tempted to give her a blade as well so she could match her husband. If he had done to his sons what William had done to Desmond, Maria would have had his head. Where was this woman’s anger? Did she simply not care about her son?

If there was ever a moment to show concern, this was it.

But she let the moment slip on by, and by then it was too late.

Altair was ready when Desmond made his move. 

As tempted as he was to leave it, Altair collected his knife from William’s back and then became Desmond’s personal shadow. Then he waited.

A week passed. Then two. 

Desmond’s sutures were removed, and the line that remained was a near perfect match for Altair’s own.

At week three, Desmond packed a bag and disappeared into the night. 

Of course, Altair followed.

After all, watching Desmond outsmart fully trained Assassins was one of his favorite pastimes.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wow guys! The warm reception the prologue got was overwhelming in the best way, I can’t even. Thank you for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks, you guys are awesome!

“Seth! What the hell are you still doing here? Your shift ended twenty minutes ago!”

Desmond shook out the glass he just finished washing and grabbed a rag to dry it. He offered his boss a lopsided grin. “Well, you were complaining about washing the dishes  _ all  _ by yourself last time I took off at the end of my shift. What? You change your mind?”

“No, but I'm not paying you any more overtime, smartass! Now. Get your gear and get the fuck out of my bar!”

Desmond laughed, setting the glass down on the rack. “Fine, fine, but if tomorrow you complain-” He sing songed the last part.

The older woman pushed him away from the sink and towards the back, scowling, but there was a smile there too. “I mean it, Seth! Out!” 

“I’m going!”

“And collect your tips!”

Desmond was still laughing to himself when he slipped out the back door, pulling his hoodie over his head as he did so. The wind blew chill air against the back of his neck, so he drew up his hood and began his walk home. It was well past four in the morning which meant the streets were as quiet as they ever got. Usually that meant for a quiet trek back to his closet of an apartment.

That didn’t stop him from carrying a knife on him. After four months in New York City he knew better than to travel unarmed.

As far as cities go, it wasn’t the worst he’s lived in. New York was loud, crowded, and chaotic and it was perfect for disappearing. Here, he was an unremarkable person in a city of millions, and no one gave him a second glance. The people he passed on the street didn’t care what he was doing as long as he wasn’t bothering them, and it was all too easy to become lost in the rhythm of the city. Just one more body among the masses.

He loved New York for the invisibility it provided.

But there were some days he hated it for that very same reason. 

Here he was, living in a city with more than eight million people, and not a single person even knew him by his real name. Not his boss, not his coworkers, and especially not the bed partners he would occasionally bring home. Those left him feeling empty enough without adding the false promise of intimacy.

There was no real use in complaining, he supposed. He did choose this life after all. All it would ever take to remind him of why was a quick glance in the mirror. At the thought, Desmond unconsciously ran his tongue behind the line of his mouth, feeling the very edges of the scar tissue that marred the outside. 

He should probably move on. It wasn’t normal for him to stay in one spot for longer than a couple of months, and as of today, this was officially the longest stretch he’s ever been in one location. The itch to run was slowly creeping into his limbs like it sometimes did. It was almost like restless paranoia, and it was that feeling that usually prompted his relocations, which would sometimes happen with no warning. The itch would strike and next thing he knew, his backpack was loaded and he and his motorcycle would end up wherever the wind would take them.

It was time, he thought, but not quite yet. It wasn’t often he landed himself an honest job that paid as well as Bad Weather, and he wasn't quite ready to let it go yet.

Another week, he told himself. Just until next payday, then he’ll move on. To Boston, maybe, or south towards Philadelphia. Maybe further, after all, he never knew where he was going until he decided to stop.

Abruptly, something tingled up Desmond’s spine and his whole body was suddenly screaming for him to  _ run! Run now now now! _

Next thing he knew, he was grabbed from behind, and something sharp was jabbed into the side of his neck. 

His whole world went dark. 

When Desmond woke next, Abstergo had him. 

  
  


Desmond’s first experience with the Animus was disorienting and disturbing, stumbling around a grey haze of a world with faceless people crowding and pawing at him from all directions. It was like a nightmare gone horribly wrong, and between being chased and the three different voices coming from absolutely _nowhere_ and _everywhere_ , he could do nothing but panic.

He woke to a blond woman hovering and asking if he was okay, and some old bastard scolding her, insisting that Desmond was perfectly fine.

When he lurched up and hunched forward, his fear and fury waged war against his nausea, and he hoped that if he threw up, it would be all over the old man’s pristine white lab coat. Teeth bared in a snarl, he whipped his head around, scathing words ready at the tip of his tongue. 

As the words flew from his mouth, his eyes caught sight of the third person in the room, lingering just behind the others. He was a menacing figure in white, stalking back and forth behind the old man like an agitated cat. His stare was intense and vicious, and although Desmond couldn’t understand the words he was growling, it sure sounded violent.

Then their eyes met over the old man’s shoulder and he froze, startled right out of his aggressive display. 

All Desmond could register was dark amber eyes and a young face with an awfully familiar scar. 

Desmond blinked. Then, like a dispelled mirage, the man vanished.

The old man, Vidic, was apparently talking to him, and he was forced to pay attention. Especially when he and his assistant, Lucy, began to explain why he was here, and what the Animus was. They were lecturing him on genetic memory, and spouting that one of his ancestors knew something important, something that these people needed. They made it clear that his cooperation was preferred, but not exactly necessary to achieve their goals.

The choice he was presented with was no choice at all.

Next thing he knew, he was back in the Animus, only this time it was a complete submersion into the memory. He and two others were somewhere dark and cramped, arguing over the necessity of killing an old man stationed further down the tunnel. 

“Wait! There must be another way. This one need not die.”

Desmond was trapped in another man’s skin as he ambushed his target from behind, knocking him to his knees before sinking his hidden blade through flesh and bone.

It was the first time Desmond had ever taken a man’s life. It didn't matter that this man had been dead for centuries, or that technically it wasn’t actually  _ him,  _ it was still Desmond’s first kill.

He wanted to feel sick. The horror at the complete disregard for an innocent life seeped into him like poison. The only thing that made it worse was that he could feel echoes from his ancestor as he shared space with him. There was nothing but apathy towards the man that now lay dead at his feet, arrogance and indifference as a whole, but beneath that . . . 

Beneath, there was a well of grief and despondency. Both were buried so very deep, as if keeping them hidden would keep him from feeling them.

This is what his dad had wanted him to become, Desmond couldn’t help but think. To be able to take a life without thinking. Without remorse.

Desmond wasn’t that person, he never had been.

But apparently Altair was.

And Desmond got a front row seat to see exactly how much his arrogance cost him.

  
  


Altair had long since come to the conclusion that it was Desmond that somehow anchored him to this world. He knew that there must be something connecting them, something that allowed Altair to transcend the boundaries of death, and centuries of time, to remain as he was. 

This had become more apparent since Desmond escaped from the Farm. There had been several times over the last nine years where Desmond had been found. Assassins, mostly, and twice by Templar reconnaissance. 

Altair may be dead, but his eagle vision was just as effective as it's ever been. 

The very first time had been a Templar. He was a police officer asking rather pointed questions of the locals, all of which indicated he was looking for someone matching Desmond’s description. The man had illuminated in Altair’s vision as a pure and vibrant red. He had panicked, knowing Desmond's safety was compromised, and all too aware he was able to do  _ nothing _ . 

Only . . . when he returned to the abandoned house he had claimed for the past week, he found Desmond already hastily packing his few belongings. The boy, only seventeen at the time, had stolen a car, ditched it two towns over, and then stole another.

Desmond did not stop until he was four states away, and Altair finally felt that he was safe. 

And that was how Altair learned that if his emotions escalated beyond a certain point, they could affect Desmond as well, if only a little. 

However, that did not help him the day Desmond had been taken right off the streets. He had tried screaming his warning when he saw the man coming up behind Desmond, a smirk on his face and a needle in hand. 

Though it had been too little, too late. Desmond had tensed, clearly ready to bolt, but he was not nearly quick enough.

Altair had raged like he hadn’t in years. 

He roared and he swung at the men who held Desmond, keeping him drugged and pliant for transport out of the country. With every stab of a needle, Altair stabbed in turn, aiming for vital organs. Every time the boy was manhandled, Altair went for pressure points and broken bones. But his attacks were just as effective now as they had been for the last twenty five years.

He was  _ useless. _

And it  _ burned _ .

All he could do was watch. 

Watch as Desmond was handled no better than livestock.

Watch as Desmond’s blood was drawn by Templar scientists.

Watch as Desmond was laid out on a table that looked far too much like an altar for Altair’s liking.

The very first time that Desmond had been put into the Animus, Altair had been paying far more attention to the two Templars present than to what the computer screens had been showing. Warren Vidic, in particular, had set him on edge and left him bristling with fury. With his casual disregard for Desmond’s well-being, and his easy dismissal of his assistant’s protests, Altair was reduced to stalking the man around the room, and growling out many dark promises in his native tongue.

Then Desmond woke, sounding just as angry as he was.

And Desmond  _ saw him _ . 

It was a fleeting moment at best, a brief widening of brown eyes and the subtle tracking of movement, but Altair clung to it like a starving man would cling to bread crumbs. After all, it was the first time in over twenty years that anyone had acknowledged his presence.

For all the years that Altair had watched over Desmond, he had never believed that the boy would ever learn of his existence beyond their brief interaction when Desmond was a child.

So when Desmond laid back down on the Animus, this time Altair made it a point to pay attention, and absorb every detail he could. He listened to Vidic’s every word as he came to stand behind the blond woman’s shoulder to observe. The computer terminal she was stationed at seemed set to monitor Desmond’s vitals as well as monitor and record what he was seeing within the depths of the machine.

He had known that he and Desmond shared a connection.

He just never expected it to be this.

The fact that Desmond was of his blood, albeit distantly, was not the shocking reveal he believed it should have been. He had considered that possibility many years ago, back when Desmond was just a child. True, he hadn’t lingered on the possibility for very long, but he had considered it all the same.

No. What shocked him was that out of all of Altair’s memories for Desmond to synchronize with, it had to be  _ this _ one. It was so unfair that Desmond’s first introduction to Altair was him at his very worst. Back when he was still devastated in the wake of losing his first love, and was on the verge of breaking away from the Brotherhood, the Creed, and everything they stood for because of it.

He used to have nightmares about his failure in Solomon’s Temple. Usually, they were twisted versions of the truth, where he would watch Kadar get brutally cut down. Malik would then stand before him, glaring accusations at him while blood flowed freely from the raw stump where the rest of his arm should be. And so many variations far worse than that. 

But occasionally . . . occasionally he would see it just as it happened. Only it was like he had become a spectator, watching himself make the same mistakes again and again. During those dreams, there would be a second figure overlaid over himself in a shimmering and translucent gold, the two of them occupying the same space and moving as one. 

But those dreams had been so rare that he had always dismissed them.

Now he wished he hadn’t. Perhaps the Apple had been trying to tell him something.

Solomon’s Temple had been his greatest failure, yes, but it had also shaped him, allowing him to see more than just himself and his own pain. But that lesson had come at such a great cost, one that he continued to pay throughout his life.

He lifted his eyes away from the screen to the still form of Desmond. Pain clawed his heart at the sight. 

He wondered if he was still paying it. 

  
  
  


Desmond was pulled from the Animus the moment Al Mualim stabbed him, no,  _ Altair _ , in the gut.

He laid there panting, only half aware of Vidic pressing for  _ just another hour or two,  _ and Lucy arguing against it, saying that it was a risk. Their disagreement eventually led them out of the main room, leaving Desmond alone. All he could do was stare at the ceiling and breathe as he slowly separated himself from Altair. Eventually he rolled to sit up, grabbing the edge of the Animus as he let his legs dangle over the side. Absently he rubbed his stomach, only half surprised when his hand didn’t get coated with blood. 

Desmond wondered what kind of side effects came with reliving the memories of your ancestors.

Nothing good, he was sure. 

With one last steadying breath, he slid off of the Animus, his whole body swaying as soon as his feet hit the floor. For a moment he could have sworn that there was a soft touch at his shoulder. On instinct he leaned into the support only to find that nothing was there, and he was forced to rebalance himself. 

Desmond rubbed his face briefly with both hands, trying to shake whatever drugs were obviously still lingering in his system. He wondered how long they had kept him under before hooking him up to that damn machine. Too long, clearly, for him to be so out of it.

As soon as he felt steady on his feet he tried to access both of the computers that were in the room. Both denied him access to anything beyond the login screen. He expected as much, but he couldn’t be blamed for trying. From there he moved on and found a utilitarian room furnished with a bed and a closet that didn’t open. The only other thing of interest was a door that led to an open and equally sparse restroom. There was a toilet, a wide counter with a sink and literally nothing else.

He made to turn when the familiar voices came floating from above.

Falling back on old training, he silently vaulted up onto the counter to bring him closer to the air vent. If he was lucky, he could listen in. The words came through a bit tinny from bouncing through the air ducts, but they were clear enough. 

The little chat between Vidic and Lucy sounded like it was getting heated.

“I don't appreciate you undermining my authority in front of the prisoner! There’s a word for that. I believe it’s called insubordination.”

“And I don’t appreciate you trying to kill him. There’s a word for that too. I believe it’s called  _ stupid _ !”

“Lucy! This isn’t my decision. I don’t set the deadline, but I'm smart enough not to challenge them!”

“I know the Incident has everyone on edge.”

“Which is why this is no time to coddle him!”

“If you push him too hard he’ll shut down, and then we’ll have nothing.”

“We have nothing  _ now _ !”

“But we  _ do _ . We just need to have a little faith. Unless you want a repeat of Subject 16, you’ll let me take point on this, Warren.”

There was a brief pause, but when the Doc replied he sounded annoyed and inconvenienced. “Fine. But I want you thinking of ways to improve his staying power. We can't afford to stop every time the man breaks a sweat. It's bad enough we have to trapes through all these useless memories.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

And with that, the conversation was clearly over.

“That sounded  _ so _ very reassuring,” Desmond muttered sarcastically as he hopped down from the counter.

He casually strolled back into the main room just as the doors to the conference room slid open on the other side. Vidic arrived first, then Lucy brushed past him to get to her terminal beside the Animus, a tablet in hand.

The Doc gave an insincere smile. “We’re done for today, Mr. Miles. I suggest you return to your room and get some rest.” That said, the look he gave Desmond afterwards promised horrible things if he decided to cause trouble. Then the man stalked past him to exit through another door on the other side of the room.

Desmond resisted the urge to flip him off, but just barely. 

Lucy was still by the Animus, and so she caught his eye as he was walking past. Her expression was openly curious. “So, you’re really an Assassin, like Altair?”

Desmond bit back a bark of bitter laughter. “Yes and no.”

Her tablet lowered a fraction. “What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to be one, but I ran away from the Farm.” 

“The Farm?” She inquired innocently.

“Be cautious, Desmond,” someone whispered beside him, voice low and accented and vaguely familiar. “This one might be fishing for information.”

He turned to look at the speaker, but when there was no one there he played it off like he was embarrassed and rubbed the back of his head. No need to show Lucy he was losing his mind. “It’s, uh, where I grew up.” Initially he intended to say more, but in the end he decided to keep his words as general as possible, with some half truths. “Being an Assassin was kinda a family thing, but I always just assumed my parents were paranoid conspiracy theorists. I mean, it was all I knew growing up, and the training was  _ nuts. _ After leaving, I just chalked it up to them being crazy, ya know?”

Lucy hummed sympathetically, then said, “It sounds like they were trying to protect you.”

The voice came back, the tone sarcastic and bitter, only this time Desmond didn’t understand a word of it, because it wasn’t in English. He thought he caught his father’s name in the mix, but he wasn’t sure. 

Creepy disembodied voice or not, the thought of his Father reminded him of his last couple weeks at the Farm. 

“Protecting me?” Desmond snorted and scratched the bottom of his scar. “Yeah, like a warden protects his prisoners.”

Lucy opened her mouth and then paused, as if she was thinking twice about what she was going to say. She returned her attention to her tablet. “You should probably go get some sleep,” she told him. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

He sighed and made to retreat to that mockery of a room, but a thought made him pause. He didn’t know how forthcoming Lucy would be in answering, but she had been friendly enough so far, and this question had been bugging him since he got here. 

“Got a question for you before I turn in.”

She returned her attention to him with a small smile. “Sure.”

“How did they find me?” Desmond asked. “I mean, I haven’t been anywhere near another Assassin for ten years.”

Lucy lightly tapped a stylus against the tablet, considering. “Use your real name?”

“Nope,” he said, then amended, “Not before today.”

“Credit card?”

“Cash only.”

“Telephone?”

“No one to call.” 

“Driver’s license?”

_ Shit _ . 

Desmond internally winced. “Motorcycle,” he admitted slowly. “Guilty pleasure.”

She waved her hand. “There's your answer. Photo, fingerprint.”

Desmond was floored. The implication behind that was staggering. He couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that escaped him. “This is a  _ drug _ company! What does Abstergo have to do with the DMV?”

Lucy lowered her voice. “Desmond, these people are everywhere. They-” She seemed to check herself and then returned to normal volume. “I-I’m sorry, but I really can’t talk about it.”

With that, her body language clammed up and she pointedly returned to her work. 

Desmond huffed a sigh and walked away.

Of course, as soon as he entered his room the door slid closed behind him and beeped. He tried to open it, but it refused to budge. The bastards had locked him in. 

At a loss for anything else to do, Desmond flopped ungracefully onto the stiff mattress. Maybe trying to get some sleep was a good idea after all. 

He just hoped Altair’s memories wouldn’t follow him into his dreams.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, I very much enjoy Lucy as a character, however my approach to her character here is that everything she did is for the benefit of the Templars.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna say it again. You guys are awesome! This fic is . . . Wow, I have never seen so many people subscribe to one of my fics so quickly! Thank you for all of your lovely comments and kudos! It’s incredibly gratifying and humbling to see how many people are enjoying this so far! Thank you all so much!

Something had changed.

Altair didn’t know  _ what _ , precisely, but the rules were shifting and he didn’t know  _ why. _

Altair was aware that he had been hovering far more than usual, but he couldn’t stop himself. For hours all he could do was watch through a computer screen as Desmond re-lived his mistakes, experiencing the harshness of that time period firsthand. 

So when Desmond slid off the Animus and swayed, he didn’t think twice about reaching out. He had done something similar on many occasions, offering comfort to Desmond even if the boy was unaware of it.

Then Desmond leaned into the touch. 

Of course, he passed right through Altair’s hand, but the motion was so deliberate that it made him wonder if Desmond had somehow felt him. 

If it had been only that, Altair would have brushed it off as a coincidence and nothing more.

But then Desmond’s talk with Lucy happened. Altair knew the tactic the woman was employing, he had seen it many times over the years and couldn’t help voicing his warning.

Then Desmond turned towards him, eyes searching but not focusing. He quickly disguised the action, but still, he had reacted.

One reaction could be a coincidence, but two? No. 

The rules were changing.

Altair had never been a gambling man, but if he was, he would have bet that whatever the cause, it had something to do with the Animus. He had so many questions about that damn machine and no way to have any of those questions answered.

Restless and unsure about what these changes meant, Altair waited until Desmond fell asleep and then he was off to scout the building.

He hadn’t left Desmond’s side since his capture, and as a result he was very much uninformed about the building and the people who had him. He knew a little, but it wasn't enough to really paint a complete picture. He knew the public face of the company was well known, and they were well funded, with influential members on their payroll. 

Templars always did prefer people who held power. 

This is what he  _ could _ do. He could gather information about their surroundings.

And so, he set off to explore.

What he discovered was less than comforting.

First off, the building was far larger than he expected it to be, though he’d admit he hadn’t been paying very close attention when they had arrived. He was an hour in when he realized there was no way he could cover the entire building in one night. 

The facility really was some sort of research and development center. Vidic and Lucy had already stated as such, but Altair was reluctant to take anything they had to say at face value. Almost all of the doors required access codes and different sections required different codes depending on clearance level. 

Security was spread thin but they were very well armed. Near the end of his excursion Altair found what looked like the security headquarters. It was two floors below Desmond’s room, and was manned by two guards who had their eyes glued to a wall of monitors. Altair quickly realized that they had surveillance everywhere. There were four different camera angles covering the Animus and the open space surrounding it, as well as two covering the cell they locked Desmond in. 

He took careful note of all the camera angles in that area in particular so he could locate each camera when he returned. If Desmond could actually hear him, and it wasn't just a fluke, then every scrap of information was potentially useful. 

Desmond may be out of practice, but he was resourceful and his reflexes were still strong. If the opportunity arose, Altair had no doubts that he would be able to escape. But there was a lot they needed before that could be a possibility. Access codes, a way of disabling the cameras, and weapons to name a few. 

It was a few hours before dawn when he finally returned to Desmond's side. Altair took up what had become his usual position over the years, his back pressed against the wall and his feet stretched out on the bed in front of him. Sitting so close he could hear the steady rhythm of Desmond’s breathing. 

Which, honestly, was the only comforting thing in this forsaken place.

Come morning, Altair planned on testing some theories. 

All too soon Warren Vidic strode into Desmond’s cell. The man stood beside Desmond’s bed and stared. 

Altair wished he was corporeal enough to put a blade through his heart. The way he looked at Desmond made Altair’s skin crawl. It was like he wasn’t seeing Desmond but some fascinating specimen to dissect and study until it was no longer interesting. 

Altair shifted to get off the bed, but in doing so he deliberately bumped against Desmond’s leg. 

The boy jerked awake, then made a startled noise when he saw Vidic. 

“Gotta say, that’s a little creepy, Doc,” Desmond groaned. “Waking up to you standing over me. You’ve been watching me sleep?”

“We’re always watching you,” Vidic said, voice clipped. “Now get up. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He turned and strode towards the door.

Desmond sat up, but didn’t move beyond putting his feet on the floor. “Oooh, I wonder who I get to kill today?”

At the dripping sarcasm, Altair huffed a quiet laugh.

Vidic was far less amused. He stopped to level a glare at Desmond. “Don’t be so cavalier! Your ancestors almost had the right idea Mr. Miles. If the deaths of a few people, evil people no less, could save the lives of thousands more than, well, it seems a small sacrifice.”

Altair’s eyes narrowed at the old man, not liking where this was going.

Desmond seemed bothered by it as well, as it had him rising to his feet. “What do you mean  _ almost _ ?”

“They didn’t go far  _ enough _ ! To use a rather tired analogy, corruption is no different than cancer. Cut out the tumors, but fail to treat the source and, well, you’re buying time at best. There’s no true change to be had without comprehensive, systematic intervention.”

Alarm bells were setting off within Altair’s mind.

“Chemo for the masses,” Desmond muttered, sounding concerned.

“Education,” Vidic corrected. “Re-education to be more precise. But it’s not easy, and it doesn’t always take.”

“Let me guess. You have a better solution. What is it then?”

Vidic laughed. It was an unpleasant sound. “Ah, but that would be  _ telling _ .”

With that, the man left, clearly expecting Desmond to follow.

Desmond stared at the open door for a moment, and Altair decided to try one more test. Without a word, Altair laid a hand on Desmond’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. 

The cloth and flesh beneath his palm gave ever so slightly to the pressure, and Desmond froze. Altair was so very grateful for this tiny bit of true contact, that Desmond realized there was someone standing beside him. 

But then Desmond’s breathing hitched and his muscles became so tense they shook under his hand. He remained so very still, as if waiting to see what would happen next. 

Altair released his shoulder and Desmond immediately hurried towards the door. 

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Altair told him, trying not to be hurt at the notion. He had to remind himself that Desmond didn’t really know him yet. That Desmond didn’t understand.

Desmond paused in the doorway, scrubbing his face quickly with one hand, then turned his head to do a quick sweep where Altair was standing. His eyes never came to rest. 

Vidic’s voice carried in from the other room. “Get a move on Mr. Miles!” 

“Go,” Altair said, “before you get yourself into trouble.”

When Desmond did say something, it could have been a response to either him or Vidic. “Yeah,” he said, a bit breathless. “Yeah, okay.” 

  
  
  


Desmond couldn’t tell who was more shocked that Altair survived his punishment, him or Altair himself. The discovery surprised them both, the overlap of identical emotions further blurring the line between the two of them. It was shockingly easy to sink into the memories of his ancestor as Altair was given the path to earn his redemption. Nine lives to be taken in exchange for one.

And so it began.

Altair was arrogant, certainly, but Desmond was beginning to wonder how much of that was a deliberately developed trait, like when he used to run his mouth during sparring sessions. But there was still a void in the man’s heart, and only when he was presented with a task did it fade to background noise. When Altair took out Tamir in the city of Damascus he boasted to his target that he looked forward to ending the brothers the man spoke of. 

“Such pride!” Tamir noted, and then he said with pity, “It will destroy you, child.”

The last words on Tamir’s lips lingered oddly in the back of Altair’s mind, and so it lingered in Desmond’s as well. 

Altair swept a feather through the man’s blood and then quickly fled the scene, pretending that the words the man spoke didn’t follow him all the way back to the Bureau. 

Soon after, the whole world fell apart as the Animus disengaged from the memory, and Desmond was abruptly dropped back into reality. 

“Out of the machine, Mr. Miles,” Vidic ordered, voice full of disdain.

Even though he was still reeling by the sudden change in centuries, Desmond couldn't help but ask. “What’s the matter, Doc?”

“Miss Stilman is once again insisting I let you rest.”

It was perfectly clear how happy the man was about that. 

Lucy herself didn’t say a word. She simply moved to sit in the armchair beside the animus as Vidic left the room. Desmond was beginning to wonder if that tablet was glued to her hand.

Desmond slid off the Animus and stretched, fingers lacing together as they arched above his head. He was startled when he noticed he still had his left ring finger, and was immediately disturbed at that realization. 

Instead of dwelling on it, he turned to Lucy to complain about Vidic. “Seriously, who put the stick up his ass?”

“We have a deadline,” she explained. “One week. Well, six days now.”

“Deadline?” He already knew, of course, but, well, pretenses.

“I can’t talk about it,” Lucy told him firmly.

Then why even bother to mention it in the first place?

Desmond’s temper flared, and the stress of the whole situation came crashing down. He practically growled at her. “Man, put yourself in my shoes! I’m being held hostage by a group of scientists, at least I  _ think _ you’re scientists, and spend all day in some crazy ass machine. You won’t tell me what you’re looking for, or why you want it, but I'm supposed to be  _ thanking you  _ for keeping me alive! This is so  _ fucked! _ ”

Lucy’s eyes flashed over her tablet, her stare lancing right through Desmond.

He refused to be cowed. “Sorry, but it is.”

She threw a hand up in annoyance. “What do you want me to do?”

Desmond ran his tongue over his scar and pretended to think. “Hm, let’s see, I don’t know, maybe give me some answers?”

“I  _ can’t _ ,” Lucy insisted. “And it’s better this way. Safer.”

“Oh yeah, for who?”

“For both of us.”

“Unbelievable,” Desmond muttered. He crossed his arms and glared down at Lucy. He pursed his lips for a moment before trying again. “So is there anything that you  _ can _ talk about? Like any fun side effects I should be looking forward to?”

That looked an awful lot like worry on Lucy’s face. “Are you experiencing anything unusual?”

“No,” Desmond lied, then gestured at the Animus and the room as a whole. “But something like this? There’s no way there's not a dark side to it. So, what is it?”

Lucy sighed and then glanced around at a few of the security cameras that were in plain view. “You're right,” She admitted quietly. It made Desmond wonder how sensitive the microphones were. “The reason I keep insisting on caution is  _ because _ of the side effects.”

Finally they were getting somewhere. “And those would be . . .?”

“If Animus sessions go on for too long, subjects have been known to experience hallucinations. They start seeing things from their ancestor’s memories, even when out of the Animus. Eventually, this can lead to full personality bleeds, which is why it’s called the Bleeding Effect.”

“So, more of a mind meld and less of ‘voices in my head’ kind of crazy.” 

“I suppose you could describe it like that.” The worry was still lingering in her eyes. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I’m fine,” Desmond insisted. Then he scratched the back of his neck, playing up his uncertainty. “It’s just that the Animus loading screen says ‘Subject 17’. I can’t help but worry about what happened to the last sixteen.”

There was an amused murmur of ‘clever boy’ somewhere to Desmond’s right. He ignored it.

Lucy looked pale at the mention of the previous subjects, mouth hanging open for a moment before speaking. “I can’t-”

“Can’t talk about it,” Desmond finished for her, mildly defeated. “It figures.”

“If you do start experiencing symptoms, let me know right away, alright?”

Desmond eyed the cameras pointedly. “Will it make any difference if I do? Remember- you have a  _ deadline _ .”

Now she looked wounded. “That's not fair. I can’t do  _ anything _ unless I know there’s a problem. So if you do start experiencing symptoms, just  _ tell me.  _ Alright?”

Desmond met her earnest gaze. He believed she was sincere in her concern, but he wasn’t comfortable divulging anything just yet.

He looked her square in the eye and said, “Alright. I’ll tell you if something happens.”

Maybe.

Probably not, though.

“Thank you.” Lucy was visibly relieved, the tension easing from the set of her shoulders. He almost felt bad for lying when she gave him a small comforting smile. “Get some rest, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

  
  


And he tried to get some rest, he _did_.

But a few hours later had him tossing and turning, thoughts dancing circles around his head and refusing to be quiet. He flopped onto his side, staring at the door and counting the minutes as they slowly crawled by. 

Eventually, there was a moment where Desmond thought he saw someone step  _ through _ the door, but just like last time they were gone in the blink of an eye. 

He rubbed his face tiredly and sighed.

“I shouldn't have left home,” he whispered to himself.

“Don’t say that,” a voice said firmly. The same one he’s been hearing off and on since he got here. 

Desmond tensed, eyes darting to the empty space beside the bed. The voice came low, as if someone was sitting on the floor next to him. His fingers dug into the sheet beneath him. “I’m going crazy.”

“No more crazy than you’ve been the last several years.” There was a sigh and a few words didn’t understand, as if the disembodied voice was talking to himself. “If you had stayed at the Farm then William would have broken you. In spirit, if not in body. Never regret having the strength to leave.”

That . . . wasn’t quite what he expected to hear.

Ever. From anyone.

Lucy had told him that the Bleeding Effect involved hallucinations of his ancestor’s memories. But this . . . 

He didn’t know what this was, but the lack of hostility had him slowly unclenching his fingers. 

But he recognized hearing voices, friendly or not, certainly wasn’t  _ normal. _

“Right,” he breathed. “So says the voice in my head.”

“I am  _ not- _ ” The voice stopped, sighed again, and then continued, almost resigned. “You have nothing to fear from me, Desmond. Believe me or not, but I have  _ always _ been your ally. I wish I could do more to help, but my existence is . . . limited. Though slightly less in recent days.”

Desmond remembered when he first woke from the Animus, the brief glimpse he saw of what he now recognized was an assassin from years long past. The shocked expression as their eyes met had certainly left an impression.

He huffed a laugh when he realized he was  _ actually  _ starting to take this seriously. “Abstergo goons are probably watching this and think I’ve cracked.”

“Not likely. Your back is to one camera, and you are in the blind spot of another. From what I could tell, there was no audio feed, but I could be mistaken. I would keep your voice low, if it concerns you.”

That brought his thoughts to a screeching halt. 

_ We’re always watching you, _ Vidic had said. Desmond hadn’t doubted it for a second, but that knowledge had kinda just fallen to the background as the day progressed. He hadn’t taken the time to look for surveillance equipment in his room. 

But the voice already knew the camera locations. 

Desmond rolled onto his back and stretched, his eyes searching his peripheral. 

“Look higher and to the right,” the voice guided. “In the shadow where the wall and ceiling meet. Do you see it?”

Desmond hummed, a noncommittal noise at best, but Desmond did see it. A small hole in the wall, tucked into a dark corner where it would be easily overlooked. 

He made a show of crawling out of bed and going to wash his face. On the way back the voice directed his eyes once more. This one was less hidden, but only slightly. 

Son of a bitch. 

Dazed, Desmond crawled back onto the bed, once more putting his back to the camera. 

Holy shit. 

_ Holy shit.  _

“So,” Desmond whispered. “You’re . . . a ghost?”

There was a short pause before his answer came, the voice low and soft. “Possibly. Or something very close. I have never met another who exists the same way I do, so I cannot say. I am certainly not alive, of that there is no mistake. I remember my death.”

He couldn’t help but ask. “Assassination go south?”

“No, surprisingly.” A soft laugh. “I died a very old man in my library. I sat down to rest and fell asleep.”

Well. That seemed a much more pleasant and peaceful ending than most Assassins get to see.

But then Desmond frowned when he remembered the brief glimpses he had caught before. Remembered the young face and dark amber eyes. “You didn’t look that old.”

A hum of agreement. “When I woke up, it was in an unfamiliar place, and in a body I hadn’t possessed in many years. The Brotherhood still existed, but I could not interact, only observe. It was . . . an adjustment.”

An  _ adjustment _ he says.

Desmond swallowed, and asked, “How long have you been stuck like this?”

“Like this? 25 years. But I died many, many years before.”

Desmond mulled over everything this long-dead Assassin had told him so far, letting it paint a picture. It sounded . . . rather lonely, to be honest. 

But then Desmond's mind registered what he  _ wasn’t  _ saying. 

He decided not to address it.

After all, he had more pressing problems.

“What else can you tell me about where I am?”

As it turned out, quite a bit. 

He would try to confirm what he could, for the sake of his own sanity, but for the first time since he woke up at Abstergo, Desmond had hope he would actually make it out of here.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap you guys! I know it’s been a while, but you got me feeling all the love over here with your mountain of comments and kudos! I know I haven’t responded (end of 2020 was ROUGH), but I promise I’ll be better about it in the future. 
> 
> And a very special shout out to the very talented LanaIsDrawing for the absolute amazing fanart of the opening scene! You can find it over here:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141166
> 
> Just still not over it. I love you all, the reception this fic is getting is simply amazing and I hope the new chapter meets expectations!

“Desmond, wake up.”

Caught between awareness and dreaming, Desmond sighed and buried his face into the thin pillow he was resting on.

Then a sharp tap to his arm had him bolting awake.

He blinked at the empty room and then rubbed his face balefully. 

“What the hell . . .”

“Vidic is coming,” said the empty space beside him. 

In a flood Desmond recalled the bizarre night he’d had.

And, sure enough, before he could even say anything, Vidic breezed into the room and barked, “Let’s go, Mr. Miles! Time’s wasting.” And then promptly breezed back out.

He stared at the empty doorway, still processing, until there was a gentle push at the small of his back. 

“Go on,” the ghost prodded.

There was so much he  _ hadn’t  _ asked last night. Like a name, for starters. Details about when the ghost was alive. A part of him really didn’t want to know, in case he only strengthened his own delusions. 

Another part of him was  _ afraid _ to know. Given the circumstances, he couldn’t help but create theories, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be right about any of them.

The jury was still out on exactly how real this was. 

But if moments like this kept happening, then he might just be convinced. 

Desmond groaned and finally rolled out of bed. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, and just to make his stance clear, he added, “This is still nuts.”

“I’m aware.”

Was that sarcasm?

That was totally sarcasm.

Huh.

The ghost didn’t offer up anything else as Desmond slowly followed Vidic outside his room. The space looked exactly the same as it had the last two days. Sparse, cold, and painfully modern.

But with one notable difference.

“Where’s Lucy?”

During their long chat the voice had expressed some rather vocal opinions about Vidic and Lucy, and none of those opinions could be considered positive. 

Desmond was on the same page when it came to Vidic.

But Lucy seemed amiable enough to Desmond.

And at least he knew she was  _ real _ , someone tangible that he could see, and touch. He wasn't ready to discard her as a potential ally.

Not yet, anyway. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Vidic told him, as if his concern was laughable. He strolled lazily towards his desk, set away from the Animus in an open alcove. “She’ll be with us soon enough.”

Meaning he wasn't gonna be shoved back into the Animus without Lucy present. Well that was interesting to note.

Desmond followed Vidic to the alcove as he mulled over what he wanted to say. The alcove was composed mainly of windows, but due to the shape of the building, there wasn’t much to see. 

Nothing that could tell him where he was, anyway.

Because, according to a dead man, he was in Italy.

He wanted to begin verifying what the ghost had told him, to see if anything had any truth in it. He would much prefer to start with Lucy, but Vidic seemed the type to monologue whenever he could feel superior. Maybe he could work with that.

“So why you doing all this, Doc? What are you hoping to accomplish?”

Thankfully, the bastard took the bait.

“You turn the television on lately?” His voice was patronizing. “Read the newspaper?”

“Never cared much for that stuff,” Desmond said, which was a blatant lie. Sure, he didn’t always have consistent access to TV, but he made sure he was at least moderately informed about the world, even if it was just locally. It was necessary to know where to avoid if you moved around as much as he did. 

But Vidic didn’t need to know that.

“Then let me sum it up for you.” The man stood behind his desk like the world’s most reluctant professor. “The world’s a mess. It’s pathetic, really. You’ve seen it firsthand yourself. A thousand years between you and your ancestor and society remains just as barbaric. Just as stupid.”

“And your point is . . ?”

“Order, Mr. Miles. The world needs order.  _ That _ is what we are working towards, and  _ that _ is what you’re helping us to achieve.”

The thought was so ridiculous that a laugh bubbled right out of his chest without his permission. 

“You expect me to believe you’re building a better tomorrow?” He scoffed.

Vidic looked truly annoyed now, and Desmond took immense pleasure when the man began gesturing wildly with his hands. “That’s exactly what we’re doing! The human race calls out for direction! They want to know why they’re here. What they’re meant to do. Well, we’re going to tell them. And once they understand  _ how  _ to live their lives, everything will be better.”

“Better  _ how _ ?” Alarm bells were ringing, and Desmond didn’t like where  _ any of it  _ was going.

“An end to all conflicts, large and small! Isn’t that what you  _ Assassins  _ strive for? Peace in all things?”

“This man twists what he does not understand,” the ghost growled from somewhere behind him.

Desmond was proud that he didn’t outwardly react, and was mildly unnerved by the realization that this might be his new normal. Pretending he wasn’t hearing a voice no one else could hear.

He glared at Vidic. “I told you, I’m not an assassin.”

“Right, right.” The man sits down and steepled his fingers together, now looking bored. 

Desmond sighed, and tried to prompt him into saying more. “I still don’t see how I fit into things.”

“In time, Mr Miles. In time you’ll understand.” He paused. “Or you won’t. I don’t care either way, as long as you show us where it is.”

“Where  _ what is?” _

Lucy swept into the room, breaking the tension and drawing their attention.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, a bit breathless, but she offered a small smile regardless. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, we are,” Vidic answered for them both. 

End of discussion. 

Well, so much for that.

He sighed and resigned himself to another session of reliving memories that were not his, and to looking for something a multi-million dollar pharmaceutical company desperately wanted.

Desmond hauled himself onto the Animus, and before he could lay back a light touch settled onto his arm, making him pause. With Lucy and Vidic accounted for in his field of vision, the press of fingertips could only belong to his ghost. 

Three fingers and a thumb, he noted absently, as he waited for him to say something.

“I’ll keep watch. When you return, ask your questions. Any knowledge I have is yours.”

The words threw him so badly that he sat there longer than he intended.

“Desmond?” Lucy asked from her terminal.

“I’m ready,” he told her, laying back. “Need to make up for lost time, right?”

  
  


True to his word, Altair kept Desmond in his sights for the entire Animus session. 

He tried to be useful by trying to observe passwords as Lucy and Vidic accessed their computers, but both typed too fast for him to decipher more than the first few keys. 

Which left him watching the screen over Lucy’s shoulder, seeing his memories replayed for enemy eyes.

_ As long as you show us where it is _ , Vidic had said.

His first impulse was that they were looking for the Apple. But the more he thought about it, the more he suspected something else. After all, it was known within the Brotherhood that Altair was still in possession of the Apple when he ordered the others to flee Masyaf.

Decades lay between his death and the memories they were making Desmond work through, claiming it was as close as they could get him to the desired memory. And if they were on a strict deadline, then it didn’t make sense for them to be looking this far back.

No, it wasn’t the Apple they were after.

Or, at least, it wasn't their priority in this instance.

So, he watched Desmond continue through this transformative portion of his life and tried to think of what the Templar’s were really after here.

It was bizarre to watch as an outsider to his own experiences. 

And difficult as well.

Malik had died as one of Altair’s closest friends. Both he and Maria had been devastated when they first heard the news.

It was hard to watch Malik’s open disdain and hostility when Altair went to the Assassin’s Bureau to speak with Jerusalem’s new Dai.

Harder still was the conversation Altair had with Al Mualim after he had dealt with the slave trader, Talal. He had not forgotten that the conversation had happened, but the specifics had been lost to time and memory.

Not so lost, as it turned out, so long as you had the proper technology.

Altair watched his old mentor with more than a lifetime’s worth of experience and knowledge. Listening to the things left unsaid and reading between the lines.

_ “Do you know how to tell if a man is mad?”  _ Al Mualim asked in his memory. _ “They are the ones who speak and act as if nothing was wrong.” _

Hearing the man speak now was chilling. The words he used to describe the slave trader easily applied to himself, and the tactics he applied on Altair himself, all in effort to retain his loyalty.

_ “What better way to make a soldier,” _ Al Mualim had told him,  _ “than to take a broken man and rebuild him.” _

_ “Such men would be loath to betray their savior,”  _ Altair had responded, too young and too naive.

Learning to see the truth behind intentions was a lesson hard won for Altair.

This was a lesson he was sure Al Mualim regretted teaching him. 

  
  


After experiencing the hospital from hell, Desmond was grateful when his surroundings dissolved, pulling him back to the present.

“God dammit, what’s the problem now?”

With Vidic bitching like that, he must have been pulled out ahead of schedule.

He certainly wasn't upset about it.

“I’m getting weird temperature readings,” Lucy was saying. “I think the Animus is overheating.”

“That’s interesting . . .” A third voice murmured, telling him his ghost was still around. 

Desmond was on the fence on whether or not that was reassuring.

Slowly getting his bearings, he carefully sat up as he watched Vidic steam, stalking back and forth behind Lucy.

“Christ, it’s alway _ something _ !” The man growled, and then gave a frustrated sigh. “How long?”

Lucy shook her head. “Too soon to tell.”

“These delays are unacceptable Miss Stillman! I want progress reports every hour!” 

With that, the man stormed out with all the dignity of a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Just. Wow.

Desmond slid off the Animus and stretched his back as he watched the man’s retreating back. 

“Why is he always yelling at you?” He asked Lucy. “It’s his machine.”

“His  _ theories _ ,” Lucy corrected, crouching down to examine some of the Animus’ inner machinery. “He’s not the one who built it.”

“Who did? You?”

A light laugh drifted up to his ears. “No. Abstergo has a team of engineers. Not much they  _ don’t _ have. But I did oversee the assembly. I guess that’s why he gets so angry with me.”

“He’s a dick.”

There was a noise of agreement somewhere from his right. With Lucy’s attention otherwise occupied, Desmond braved a look in the ghost’s direction.

His heart stopped.

There looming behind Lucy was a white robed Assassin, arms crossed, hood down, and looking thoroughly disgruntled. Unlike the brief glimpses he had caught before, Desmond was able to get a good look, and suddenly he was wondering if he should talk to Lucy after all. 

He wondered if this was what the bleeding effect felt like.

Because he knew that face. He had seen it every time he was in the Animus, in fleeting glimpses on flashing steel, or reflected back at him in still pools of water.

He knew this man.

And that terrified him. 

Then those angry amber eyes caught onto his staring. 

The man grew rigid for a split second before all the tension bled right out of him. There was an aborted motion with his hands, but they simply clenched and fell loose at his sides, standing quiet and still. 

Desmond opened his mouth, but he had no idea what he was going to say.

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” Lucy declared, snapping his attention back to their current conversation. “We all are.”

It took a moment to catch up with his thoughts so derailed. But he did catch up, and quickly processed what she said.

He shouldn’t be so surprised, but he was still disgusted nonetheless. “I can’t believe you’re defending the guy.”

“Warren saved my life,” She bit back sharply, rising to her feet. “So if he wants to yell a little? Let him.”

His mind stuttered to a stop.

“What do you mean he saved your life?”

She couldn’t hold his gaze long before turning away. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t get to go home at night,” she told him bitterly.

“Wait. Are you saying  _ you’re  _ a prisoner?”

  
  
  


Altair knew the instant Lucy had pulled Desmond in. 

His hackles raised.

The woman still blazed a rich scarlet in his Eagle Vision, and he wished desperately that he could do more than voice warning.

“She’s about to spin you a tale, Desmond,” Altair cautioned. “Tread carefully.”

A small flex in Desmond’s neck was his only indication that he was listening.

A part of him longed for the boy to take another look, to actually  _ be seen _ , but quietly dismissed the notion. Discretion was needed, after all. 

Altair watched attentively as Lucy moved across the room, eventually coming to rest on the windowsill behind Vidic’s desk. He studied her, taking in every movement, every posture. Listening to her cadence and watching for any sudden shift in her inflection.

“When they first approached me I was finishing up my PhD. The university had made it clear I had no future there. They didn’t like the subject of my doctorate, calling it pseudo science, said keeping me on would discredit and embarrass them.” Here she pauses to stare down at her hands and shake her head, dejected. “It was the same everywhere. Other universities. Companies I interviewed with. Pretty soon I was out of money and out of time. I was  _ this  _ close to waiting tables. Then I got a letter.”

“From Vidic?” Desmond prompted.

“He said he had been following my career since undergrad. He believed in my work and wanted to meet to discuss my future.” Lucy stands to pace a bit, her hands becoming more animated. “You have no idea how good it felt to hear that. So I met with him. What did I have to lose?”

“And he offered you a job.”

“Yes. Here at Abstergo. Helping out on the Animus Project. I’d have a chance to test my theories and prove the professors wrong. How could I turn that down?”

“Dream job and an Italian Vacation. Sounds dreamy. I think I’m missing the part where you’re a prisoner,” Desmond said skeptically. 

Lucy paused mid-pace. 

With her back to Desmond, her face hidden from his view, but not from Altair’s watchful gaze. Her expression cracked. A split second of stunned surprise before it was swept away.

“Sometimes I wonder if they weren’t behind it all,” Lucy said quietly, eyes distant, lost in her story. “If they’d manipulated events so that I would be desperate. They can do that. They can do anything. I didn’t think when I agreed to come here. They even  _ told  _ me I’d be trapped. For six months, a year max. Once the product launched there would be no need for secrecy anymore. But until then, I would be a  _ guest  _ of the company. At least, that’s what they said.”

Desmond seemed hesitant to ask. “And when the Animus was ready?”

“They came in while I was sleeping. Three guys. Guns.” She walked away from Desmond, but kept talking. Leading him around like a duckling. “They dragged me out of bed. God. The worst part was that I  _ knew them _ . One guy, Richard, we ate  _ lunch  _ together sometimes. And now he was gonna . . . They were cracking jokes. I tried to pull away. He hit me. And that’s when he told me I was going to die.”

“Christ,” Desmond breathed, horrified. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I kept telling myself it wasn't real . And then Warren was there. Shouting at them to get away from me. And they listened.”

“Jesus.”

She finally stopped, and turned to face her audience, blue eyes bright with melancholy. “He’s not a  _ happy _ man, Desmond. I wouldn’t even say he’s a  _ good  _ man. But he saved my life. They never came for me again. And he promised they never would.”

The horror and disbelief still hadn’t left Desmond’s eyes, and in that instant Altair knew Desmond had been moved by the tale. 

“You’re still stuck working for these nut jobs.” Desmond’s voice was incredulous.

“But I’m alive,” She told him proudly, then seemed to shake herself. “Anyway. I really do need to get the Animus repaired. I’ll see you tomorrow Desmond.”

And that was the end of their discussion.

Altair had to admit that she was very convincing. 

Every word rang true, and Altair would not be surprised if some semblance of these events took place. After all, the most compelling lies were the ones firmly rooted in the truth. Take away certain details and context, and it was easy to change the implied meaning if one was careful with their vocabulary.

This was a deliberate play, crafted specifically to prey on Desmond’s kind nature.

The realization only added fuel to Altair’s anger.

Malik would have said that Desmond inherited Altair’s talent for finding trouble.

Unfortunately, Altair had to agree.

  
  
  


Desmond sat in silence for almost an hour before he finally spoke to the seemingly empty room.

“I hate this place so fucking much.” 

“Be mindful of the cameras,” the ghost reminded him softly, and then said, “But I agree with you.”

Desmond huffed and rolled to his left, showing his back to the security system, and flopped one arm off the edge of the bed. He shoved his left arm under his head and stared at the man sitting on the floor beside him. 

Without the hood hiding the man’s face, it was an easy thing to do. 

He had told Desmond he had died an old man, but the face he wore now was young. Desmond’s age, or possibly younger. His legs were stretched out before him, and his hands sat quietly in his lap, the leather of his gloves worn and frayed at the edges. 

With his eyes closed and head tilted back against the wall he looked like a resting sentinel more than a ghost. 

Maybe he should have mentioned this to Lucy after all. She did mention that the other subjects experienced hallucinations after their forays in the Animus. 

But could a hallucination be this realistic? 

He  _ breathed  _ for crying out loud! Desmond could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the subtle movements that came with it. For a dead man he did a remarkable job of impersonating the living. 

There were other things too, details that caught his attention now that he had time to examine them _. _ There was a light dusting of stubble, imperfections on his robes, the short disarray of his hair. Every detail he noted just made it more convincing. 

But it was the scar that kept drawing his eye and holding it. 

Because as similar as it was to Desmond’s, it wasn't identical. There was a slight shift in placement. Different thickness, different length. Even the texture of the scar tissue looked different.

That, more than anything else, made him seem  _ real _ .

Desmond dropped his voice to a quiet whisper. “I can still see you. Is that intentional?”

Those amber eyes snapped open and flickered up to meet his. “No, but then I’ve never had control over such things.” He looked away and then up at the ceiling. “If I had, you never would have ended up in this place. But what good is a warning when you can not hear it?”

Desmond remembered his walk home from work. He remembered being grabbed and the sharp jab of the needle in his neck.

He also remembered being overwhelmed with the urge to  _ run  _ just seconds before that.

But there were over half a dozen occasions where similar urges have struck him over the years. Frenzied moments of panic that prompted hasty relocations. The first time it happened the feeling didn’t abate until he put several state lines between himself and his starting point.

_ I have always been your ally, _ the ghost had told him last night. 

Desmond wasn’t sure what to think. 

“Why you even care, huh?” He asked. 

What was Desmond to a dead man? 

Especially  _ this  _ dead man. Imagined or otherwise.

What was he to Altair?

The expression he leveled at Desmond was so  _ wounded  _ it left him breathless. 

The silence stretched, both of them clearly at a loss for words. 

So, against his own better judgment, Desmond tried for a more direct response. 

“Altair?” 

A sharp inhale and startled eyes, and never in a million years could Desmond ever imagine that expression on Altair’s face. It was honest and raw, and the Altair he had experienced in the Animus would never allow himself to be so vulnerable in front of others. 

Forgetting himself, Desmond reached out, trying to touch the man’s arm.

He didn’t know which one of them was more shocked when his fingers actually made contact with the rough leather of Altair’s bracer.

Desmond froze, waiting to see what would happen next.

There was a heartbeat where no one moved, Desmond staring at Altair, and Altair staring down at Desmond’s hand.

One heartbeat turned into two.

Then, slowly, Altair lifted his hand and rotated so they were essentially clasping each other's forearms. 

The touch was tentative at first, as if he expected it to disappear at any moment, but when it  _ didn’t _ . . .

Altair’s grip became so tight it was  _ painful,  _ but the rest of him went almost boneless, his whole body curling over the point of contact.

Though it hurt, Desmond didn’t pull away, instead reciprocating with a firm grip of his own.

Because he suddenly got it.

This is what touch starvation looked like.

Twenty five years of it, where one was so desperate for simple contact that a small touch caused such massive relief.

After a small eternity, Altair loosened his grip but didn’t let go. Instead he sat up, and pressed his free hand over Desmond’s, keeping it in place for the time being.

Desmond wasn't about to argue about it.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is the prologue of a fic that has been literal YEARS in the making. Inspired by several songs, this baby will be near 100k by the time it’s all said and done, and I’m sure it’ll be slow going. I have over 5k in notes alone, and the first few chapters to buffer. I finally feel ready to tackle this beast!
> 
> Hope to see you guys return for chapter one!


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